New York Boys, Jersey Girls
by Roga
Summary: Dan Rydell can be in pain and still flirt with his doctor. He's just... cool that way. Sports Night crossover.


Casey admits that he has, from time to time, done his share of mocking whenever Danny's gotten injured. This is because Danny usually injures himself in the most ridiculous ways - like getting his ass whipped by Natalie (literally, while she was wearing a Catwoman costume, one distant Halloween), or slipping on a banana peel (strategically placed by no one in no way related to Casey or any bets about who was funnier than whom), or choking on a bagel and knocking his head on the desk, which was more sad than amusing, really.

But Casey hates it – _hates_ it – when Danny gets sick.

It's a little bit because seeing Danny hurt makes something in his gut constrict painfully, and a little bit because_ symptoms illness surgery complications shit Danny could die_ is an annoying train of thought he can never quite banish from his mind.

But mostly, it's because when Danny isn't embarrassed by whatever it was that caused his injury, he likes to complain.

A lot.

"Do they have ice chips here? I think I need ice chips."

Casey glares. "Are you in labor?"

The look Danny throws him is so pathetic it belongs on an animal shelter volunteering poster. "There are hot coals making their way down my throat, Casey. Hot coals. With spikes. And they are hot, not in a Dana and Natalie making out naked way, but in a scorching-coffee, tongue-has-melted way. My throat is an exploding minefield of hot spiky coal pain, and—" Danny coughs, eyes squeezing tightly, and damn it. He's like a puppy.

"Fine, fine," Casey grumbles, "I'll get your damn ice chips. Stay here."

Danny leans back on the cot. "Thanks, Case," he murmurs. "I couldn't move anyway, because my legs, they are in pain, hot spiky pain—"

The exam room door clicks shut behind him.

When Casey returns five minutes later, bearing a Styrofoam cup with ice chips, a doctor is already examining Dan.

A willowy, gorgeous, shampoo commercial model of a doctor.

"Well, hello," Casey says, outstretching a hand. "I'm Casey—"

"McCall, of course," the doctor completes with a smile. "I'm Dr. Cameron, and it's very nice to meet you." She glances at Dan questioningly. "But are you sure you should be in here right now? Exams are usually conducted in private."

"You may know me as the charming sportscaster from TV," Casey says (charmingly), "but some of my lesser known talents are ice chip couriering and professional handholding. Danny here's afraid of doctors."

Dan groans. "Casey, learn to distinguish between 'doctors' and willowy, gorgeous, shampoo commercial model doctors, okay? I really don't need handholding for the latter."

Dr. Cameron's smile widens. "If it's all right with Dan, of course you can stay."

Casey lifts his eyebrows. "First name basis already?"

"Call me Dan, I said," Dan says. "She's calling me Dan. Should I take my shirt off?"

"Are you trying to win the Fastest Moving Relationship Ever Award?" Casey asks.

"No, no, you don't need to undress," Dr. Cameron says, ignoring Casey, although she definitely looks like she appreciated the offer. She puts the stethoscope in her ears, and raises the back of Dan's shirt. "This is fine. Take a deep breath."

Danny takes a shallow breath, coughing as he exhales.

"Again," Dr. Cameron says, and with her fingers trailing across Danny's back Casey wouldn't mind trading places with him right about now, hot spiky throat coals included.

The door flies open with a bang, revealing what appears to be a cane-wielding madman. "Ha! I knew you had an ulterior motive for doing clinic duty. Groping celebrities? That's a new low."

Casey can't help but feel satisfied that even cane-wielding madmen apparently recognize them. He catches Danny's eyes, and they both grin.

Dr. Cameron rolls her eyes. "House—_Dr._ House, is there anything you wanted?"

"Just making sure you don't kill these patients." The man – Dr. House – leans towards Casey, and stage-whispers, "She wasn't hired for her brains, this one. If you know what I mean."

"House!" she exclaims, followed by another, "House!" – this time coming from another doctor who's just entered the room, breathless, brown hair flopping into his eyes.

"House, we need you upstairs, will you stop harassing—oh," he blinks, staring at Danny and Casey. "You really _are_ here."

"Hi," Casey says (charmingly), "I'm Casey—"

"Yeah yeah yeah," Dr. House says, "we know who you are."

"It's always nice to meet the fans," Danny says magnanimously.

"Oh, get over yourselves," House says, and grunts as the other doctor elbows him sharply.

"Dr. James Wilson," the other doctor says, extending a hand, and huh, he's almost as charming as Casey. "The ass is Dr. House, in case he hasn't introduced himself. It's great meeting you guys."

"Likewise," Casey says. Danny coughs.

Dr. Cameron takes a step forward. "Okay, it's getting crowded in here."

"You just want to go back to groping your celebrity," Dr. House accuses.

Danny pipes up, "Totally okay by me," and coughs again, and Dr. Cameron shoots House a smug look.

"House, let's go," Wilson says. "You can watch them tonight on TV. Instead of stalking their exam room."

"I'm not a fan!" House protests. "I barely even watch sports. Any game that doesn't include scantily clad women and mud is of no interest to me, and fans of any game that requires protective gear like _shoulder pads_ are sissies."

"He's a lacrosse man," Dr. Cameron divulges.

"Ah, lacrosse!" Danny nods. "The sport of men."

"Except when played by women," Casey points out.

"Except for then. It is the sport of overcompensation by large phallic symbols for people, of both sexes, who possess an inability to ice skate."

Dr. Cameron holds Danny's chart to her face, possibly to hide a smile. "I'm sure Dr. House knows nothing about overcompensation by large phallic symbols."

The look Dr. Wilson gives her is almost admiring, but Dr. House looks less than pleased. "Sassy," he tells her. "Are these men aware that the sicker they are, the higher the appeal on the Cameron scale? Are you terminal? She'll probably put out."

"House, you should go before I start to believe you're actually jealous."

"I'm not jealous," House snorts.

"Not for Cameron," Wilson coughs into his hand.

"Danny," Casey whispers, moving closer as the doctors continue to bicker, "I'm trying to remember why we thought Jersey was a good idea."

"There was beer, and the promise of monster trucks," Danny whispers back. "But mostly beer."

"From now on," Casey vows, "we say no to beer."

"From now on we say no to Jersey, Case."

"That could work too. Better, probably."

"Can I have an ice chip?" Casey hands Dan an ice chip. "Also some attention for the sick person," Danny raises his voice to a pathetic rasp, "would be nice."

The three doctors stop squabbling and turn to Dan. Dr. Wilson clears his throat, slightly embarrassed. "Dr. House and I will leave now. You're in good hands."

"Mediocre hands," House corrects. "There's a reason she hasn't been promoted."

Dr. Cameron – there's no other word for it but gapes, really. "I'm sorry?"

"I'm just saying," House says, as innocently as Dana in her master manipulator mode, "you could settle for Dr. Cameron's fairly pedestrian treatment and cross your fingers and hope for the best, or you could opt for, and I'm being modest here, the best diagnostician in the world."

Dr. Cameron crosses her arms furiously, but turns her body to Dan, waiting for him to decide. Danny looks like he's caught between two things that one should not be caught between, like doctors who are waiting for the chance to poke things in you and you're not exactly sure _why_. "Um," he says, and Casey takes this as a signal to step up into his designated role.

"As the official handholder," Casey says, "I must insist that my friend here gets the best medical treatment available."

Everybody's stares turn to Casey. Clearly, this did not help.

"All right," Dr. Cameron says. "We're getting nowhere. Let's just try not to prolong your suffering any longer."

"Thank you," Danny exhales. "For I am in pain."

"Where does it hurt?" she asks, and Casey closes his eyes. This might take a while.

He lets his mind wander as the doctors pepper Dan with questions and Danny rattles off a highly embellished, almost poetic list of his ailments and afflictions, from his itchy ears and aching eyelashes and continuing downwards.

"…and my throat, it is a hive of hot-coal-carrying bees, with stingers on them. My chest feels like it's been knocked out flat on a tennis court—"

"Clay, hard, grass or indoors?" Dr. House interrupts, looking entirely too pleased with himself. Dr. Cameron rolls her eyes.

"Clay, I guess," Danny says. "And also, my stomach." He makes a vague gesture with his hand.

The doctors wait. "What?" Danny asks.

"You have abdominal pain?" Dr. Wilson prompts. Danny nods. "Sharp, dull, throbbing, radiating? What does it feel like?"

Danny gives it some thought. Finally, he says, "It feels like Luis Gonzales just looped a single off Mariano Rivera in the 2001 World Series."

House rolls his eyes and says, "Give me something I can work with, dude."

Dr. Cameron, on the other hand, marks something on her clipboard and inquires, "Would you describe it as the queasy dread of watching Rivera's error put two men on base, or more like the sharp, jabbing pain of the Diamondbacks winning on the world's wimpiest base hit?"

Casey's eyes widen, as do those of every other male in the room. Casey doesn't need to read Danny's mind to know that Dr. Cameron's hotness factor has just multiplied by five.

"The former," Danny says in a raspy voice, and Casey knows, he positively _knows_ that Danny's holding himself back from saying _But that error should have been scored to Brosius, _because Danny has finally, finally learned not to get into sports pissing contests with girls he likes.

"All right then," she says brightly, snapping the clipboard shut. "Strep throat it is, with side effects from the fever. I'll give you a prescription for antibiotics and we'll take a throat culture just to be sure, but you'll be fine in a couple of days."

Danny blinks. "That's it? I'm not dying?"

Wilson lays a firm hand on House's shoulder and starts steering him towards the door. "It appears you've got this covered," he tells Dr. Cameron. "Mr. Rydell, Mr. McCall, thank you for visiting us here at the PPTH clinic; if you're ever in the area, please, come again."

"She learned from the best!" House tosses over his shoulder, before being shoved outside. Dr. Wilson softly closes the door behind them with an apologetic nod.

"You work with interesting people," Danny comments.

"Yes," she says. "Aha."

It's not really a laugh.

"I hope if you don't mind if we don't, in fact, come again," Casey says. "Ever."

"It's not you," Danny apologizes. "It's Jersey."

"And the doctor with the cane?" she hazards.

"And the doctor with the cane," Danny agrees, and turns on the charm. "The doctor with the Yankee references, on the other hand, was quite enchanting."

Dr. Cameron smiles. "Was she?"

"I hate to presume," Danny says, and Casey almost snorts out loud, "but is it possible you've gained your sports knowledge by studying a certain dashing anchor on a certain TV program? Nightly? While lying in your bed?"

Casey chivalrously delivers a light slap to Danny's head, which is answered by a hissed, "_Pain_, Casey, _pain!_"

"Actually," Dr. Cameron replies, jotting something down in her prescription pad, "my husband was a hardcore Yankee fan."

"Was?"

She hands Dan the prescription. "Was."

When it looks like Danny's plan is to just sit there and continue batting his eyelashes, Casey decides to intervene. "Thank you for your help, Dr. Cameron. We should get going. Monster trucks are waiting for…" Casey trails off. Danny's suddenly remembered he's sick, and is clutching his Styrofoam ice chip cup with one hand and wiping his brow with the other, obviously attempting to still look manly while battling a hypochondriac drama queen nature and a genuine case of strep. Casey lifts his gaze back up. "Dr. Cameron, I'd be honored if you accepted two monster truck tickets as a token of our appreciation."

"Mmm," she says noncommittally. "Great."

"You're not a Jersey girl at heart, are you?"

She shrugs, but takes the tickets anyway. "I can always use these to bribe my boss."

"If you're ever in New York," Danny says, groaning as he gets up off the cot, "look me up, I'll show you around."

She smiles, but doesn't seem convinced. "Sure, Dan."

"I'll mention your name on TV tonight," Danny promises.

"He won't be going on air tonight," Casey reassures her. "It's the fever. He says things."

"I'll make sure _someone_ mentions your name on TV tonight," Dan amends, "or at least refers to lacrosse as the sport of people of both sexes who—what was it? It was good. Anyway, I'll say something just for you. It's how I get all the girls to like me. Or at least that's the plan, from now on."

"You don't have to," she says, and this time the smile reaches her eyes. "I'll tune in anyway."


End file.
